Shy Quotes

“He feels colossally sad.

Blisteringly sad.

Almost ecstatically sad.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“The night is huge and it hurts.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“They try and figure each other out, because there's fuck-all else to do. They each carry a private register of who is genuinely not OK, who is liable to go psycho, who is hard, who is a pussy, who is actually alright, and friendship seeps into the gaps of these false registers in unexpected ways, just as hatred does, just as terrible loneliness does.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“He’s almost in the middle of the pond, by the little duck island. He sees the circle of his own intrusion, quietly widening.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“He could learn to speak this language: night-end.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“Shy said It's our music, coming out of our shit towns, it's not from Staten Island or Seattle or Detroit, it's from Walsall and Watford.

Shaun and his mate Andy burst out laughing and Andy did a squeaky voice and said Fwom Wycombe and Weading and... Wochdale and Shy said Fuck off Andy, and Shaun said Argh man, learn to take a joke, yeah?”
― Max Porter, Shy

“Shy is wrapped up in other people,
no weight on his back,
eyes closed,
waiting for another day.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“The mind is a universe, black holes and all, says Steve. It’s mad, and that’s a fact.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“He falls asleep judging himself with no context. In his dream he’s offended someone, then everyone, then he’s hunted and taunted so he stabs through the fence, stabs naked backs, stabs soft temples and vulnerable gaps.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“He waits by the hedge and nibbles his fingers and thumbs for a minute, chewing through burning memories, spitting chunks of skin and nail into the dark.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“He smells of pond. Everything smells of pond. He feels like he could sniff his way into individual microbes, earthy worming growgreen liquid stink, newts and shoots, silty, fruity, and as he walks he gathers in the smell of dry leaves, crinkly things, brown oily smells, good rot, herby hydro deep woodlousey sticky mushroom smells, things turning, things that go on smelling this way whether or not a wet teenager is here to smell them. He is all sense. He isn't having any thoughts, he's all smell and shadows and ruined trainers, a frighteningly awake sleep creature sloshing along.”
― Max Porter, Shy

“Posh Cal comes from the countryside and tells stories about the woods. These old hunty blokes who live in the forest and cut people and burn them on big bonfires with all the brambles and bracken and smoky shit so nobody knows, grind the bones into pig lunch. Shiny leather high heels and kids' toys in the wood like props from ITV murder dramas, scared people running through bracken and brambles, trying to get to the safety of the big house but the big house isn't safe, it's fully stocked with violent, frustrated young male offenders, lying awake, nightsweats in the dark Last Chance, marinating their desire to hurt people night after night in their soupy rural overlapping dreams, bad young men, blast-past-borstal bastards, lab rats, lying there while crusty ghosts from the old house crouch over them dribbling fear and violent fantasy into their ears, drip, spittle, trickle in the middle of the mean old witchy littered English woods a long way from home, a long way from any lights or cab ranks, or trust, or mums.

Haha, crack on, you fuckintwat, says Shy, and starts walking again, slight shivers in his belly.”
― Max Porter, Shy